


it's not as good as it used to be

by plingo_kat



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Gen, Pre-Slash If You Squint, there's no plot anywhere in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-07 08:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: “The recovery position.” Klaus laughs to himself until nausea forces him to swallow rapidly and pant, sweating. Maybe heshouldturn onto his side, just in case. Drowning in his own vomit would be such an inglorious death.





	it's not as good as it used to be

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Russian by @emhopam **[here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7973386)**!

“Ohhh boy,” Klaus says, squinting dizzily at the overcast sky. “This was such a bad idea.”

“No kidding,” Ben says, an indistinct shape in the corner of his eye. “You should turn over.”

“The recovery position.” Klaus laughs to himself until nausea forces him to swallow rapidly and pant, sweating. Maybe he _should_ turn onto his side, just in case. Drowning in his own vomit would be such an inglorious death.

“Hope Diego gets here soon,” Ben mutters. Klaus turns his head to look at him, then decides that he might as well roll all the way over. There. Recovery position achieved.

“What’s Diego going to do?” Klaus says. “I’m already sick.”

“He could take you to bed.” Ben says pointedly. “Or make you drink some water. Take care of you.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of.” Suddenly cold, he shivers. “I’m fine.”

“You’re running a fever.”

“How do you know? You can’t feel my temperature.”

“Maybe not.” Ben sounds smug. “But he can.”

“What?” Klaus flinches as a pair of black combat boots swing into his vision. Diego squats, face furrowed into a frown.

“How the hell did you even get up here?” Klaus hisses as Diego’s fingers press against his forehead, cool although he just stripped off his gloves. They slip in Klaus’ sweat. “Damn, you’re burning up.”

“Told you,” Ben says.

“Shut up,” Klaus snaps. He directs his gaze at Diego. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.” Diego says, and gets down onto one knee. “Come on, get up. I’m taking you home.”

Klaus goes limp and tries to meld with the concrete roof. A hundred and thirty pounds is light for a man of his height, but it’s still a lot of deadweight to cart around. And bodies are hard to maneuver; Klaus knows more about that than he ever wanted to.

“I _will_ carry you,” Diego threatens.

“He’s just trying to help,” Ben says.

“I don’t need help,” Klaus says.

“Oh yeah?” Diego’s thumb presses against his brow near the bridge of his nose, briefly alleviating the headache he didn’t even realize he had. “Stand up, then.”

“Don’t wanna,” Klaus mutters, and closes his eyes. “Just leave me ‘lone.”

“You asked for it,” Diego says, grim, and Klaus yelps as he’s hauled over Diego’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. His stomach roils.

“Think I’m gonna throw up.”

“You better not,” Diego growls, and heads for the fire access. The heave of each step Diego takes thumps against the inside of his skull and pushes against his gut.

“If I do, it’ll be your fault.” Klaus groans as Diego kicks open the door. “Fuck, not so loud, please.”

“Did you take anything?” Hm. Diego’s laundry detergent smells vaguely like flowers. Doesn’t exactly fit with his whole gruff vigilante image. “Hey. Klaus. Did you take anything?”

Klaus yelps when he nearly pitches forward off Diego’s shoulders. “Jesus! I wasn’t kidding about throwing up. If you don’t want vomit all over your nice flowery turtleneck, don’t do that again.”

“Did. You. Take anything.”

“What? No, no, I’m just sick, completely legitimately sick. I’m, uh, on my way to sober.”

“That’s going to suck,” Ben opines.

“Suck how,” Klaus says.

“What?” Diego says.

“You’re going to be going through withdrawal while you’re sick,” Ben says. “I remember the last time that happened.”

“ _I_ don’t remember,” Klaus says.

“That why I said it would suck,” Ben says.

“Then shut up,” Diego says, and clamps his arm tighter around Klaus’ thigh. He sounds a little strained, so Klaus decides to be a good brother and obey. They get to Diego’s car without further incident. When he’s settled in the seat and the car rumbles to life beneath him, things get a little hazy. He rests his head on the chair near Ben’s thigh and closes his eyes. 

He wakes up in a semi-familiar room. The couch he’s lying on is saggy and his ass has nearly been completely swallowed by a gap between the cushions; he struggles free with a bit of effort. A single dim light illuminates a hulking steel tank which squats in the corner of the room, pipes coming off of it into the walls and ceiling.

“Diego’s place,” Ben says, quiet. He points.

For a moment Klaus thinks the man in the bed is splashed with body paint. That’s what the bruises look like in the low light, smeared handprints made with careless gropes. But that’s not it, that’s not Diego’s life. Diego goes out and gets whaled on by criminals at night, then comes back to his gym boiler room and gets punched some more, probably for money. Christ. Klaus wonders if he enjoys it.

When they were kids Diego and Luther were the ones who liked the fight scenarios most. Klaus did well at the simulations where creativity was encouraged, where Sir Reginald told them to use any method possible to win. Five always beat him even then. Allison swept all negotiation sims. Ben did well at engineering, or detective work; he and Diego often tied for who would figure out criminal patterns fastest. Looking back it’s really no wonder Diego grew up to become a vigilante. It’s what he was raised for. What they were all raised for.

Right now though, Diego is asleep. Like this, face slack and just faintly drooling, he’s cute. Even the scar just adds to the allure, makes Klaus want to trace gentle fingers over it and smooth down his hair, feel the softness of a mouth too often set in a frown.

Klaus shivers. He’s cold again. He takes a step forward and nearly trips, feet tangled in a comforter on the floor by the couch. Must have kicked it off while he was asleep. He wraps it around his shoulders like a cape and grabs the two sides to bundle at his waist. Warm _and_ a way to keep it from dragging on the floor.

“Why’d he bring me back here?” Klaus wonders, edging toward the sink. His throat feels like he’s been gargling gravel.

“He’s our brother,” Ben points out. “He wants to help you.”

“A little too late for that.” He giggles into the blanket and finds a mug in the sink. Good enough. When the water turns on the pipes groan ominously and Klaus flinches, twisting to look over his shoulder.

Diego jerks awake with a knife already in hand.

“Hey, hey,” Klaus says soothingly, raising his free hand, the other still holding the mug under the faucet. “It’s just me. It’s Klaus.”

“Klaus?” Diego rubs his hand over his face. “What are you-- you’re up.”

“Yeah, and what does a man need to do to get a drink around here?” He sloshes the overflowing mug under the water. “You have any clean cups?”

“You had a fever.” Diego heaves himself to his feet and makes his way toward Klaus, knife still in hand. All he’s wearing is a pair of boxer briefs. Klaus can see that the bruises creep over his ribs and splash down over one thigh. “Over a hundred and four. If it got any higher I was going to take you to the hospital.”

“Well I feel much better now.” Forget a new mug, he’s dying of thirst. Diego snatches it out of his hand before the rim makes its way to his lips. “Goddammit, Diego!”

“I have a clean one.” He reaches around Klaus to open a drawer. “Here.”

“Oh.” The water is cool on his throat, trickling in icy rivulets down the inside of his chest to his stomach. Goosebumps rise on his skin. “Thanks.”

“You feel cold?” Klaus flinches as Diego reaches for his forehead, but leans into his palm when he makes contact. “You’re still feverish.”

“I’m okay.” With his eyes closed, it’s almost like he’s a kid again, Mom smoothing down his sweat-soaked curls after a training session. Or the nightmares resulting from a training session. “Uh. Kind of hungry.”

“Waffles?” He can hear the smile in Diego’s voice. A sudden pang twinges his heart, an ambush from a direction he’d long left undefended. The past was never really something he missed. Most of the bright spots were due to his siblings, and he doesn’t really see them that often; even when he does, it’s rarely on friendly terms.

“Yeah,” he sighs, tasting the sweet syrup of a 1998 Wendy’s in his mind. “That sounds amazing.”

“Too bad,” Diego says ruthlessly. He laughs when Klaus’ eyes spring open in an accusing glare. “I have some soup. You can drink it and go to bed.”

“Oh?” Klaus leans insouciantly against the lip of the sink. “Giving up your own bed for me, Diego? What a _lovely_ gesture.”

“It’s almost time for me to get to work,” Diego flicks a glance at the clock, and Klaus’ eyes follow. One in the morning.

“Vigilante-ing?”

“Mopping.” Diego snorts at the face Klaus makes. “What, you think I live here for free? I’m not Allison. Besides. You can’t be left on your own right now.”

“Wow,” Ben says. “So this is what it feels like to be around somebody with common sense.”

Klaus flips him the finger, subtly, hand behind his back. He bats his eyelashes. “I guess I’ll just be here. Slowly dying, longing for the gentle touch of a nursemaid, distressingly sober--”

“You get a glass of water by the bed and a radio,” Diego interrupts. “I’ll know if you try and leave to get high, so save yourself the trouble and rest.”

Klaus complains for the sake of it, but it’s actually nice to be taken care of. Diego’s hands are gentle on his skin, casually intimate with no expectation of more. When was the last time he felt that?

Too long.

He obediently drinks soup from a can which Diego pours into a bowl and heats in a microwave hidden inside a cabinet. Weird. Come to think of it, Diego’s whole decorating aesthetic is kind of strange. More like a magazine shoot than where somebody actually lives, or like somebody who got all their decorating tips from skimming through furniture catalogues. Nobody actually adorns their living space with references to themselves except for narcissists and psychopaths. Although. Maybe Diego qualifies, given his propensity for knives.

He doesn’t say so aloud. Diego is being suspiciously nice to him, given that most of the time Klaus meets up with any of his siblings they try to a) dump him in rehab or b) snarl at him to go away. Better not to jinx it.

“Here.” Diego produces a bulky, military-grade radio and tunes it, clicking the talk button twice. From across the room another radio echoes the pattern in hissing static. “If you need anything, radio me. _Don’t_ call just because you’re bored. I’ll be upstairs.”

“Do you have a bathroom?”

“Outside,” Diego admits. There’s a strange look on his face, something that flirts with shame. “Up the stairs and on the right. The men’s locker rooms. You need me to show you?”

“I think I can manage.” He’s starting to feel nauseous again, and Diego’s bed looks more and more inviting. “Go, go. I’ll just. Be here.”

Diego opens his mouth, closes it, and turns on his heel. He pauses at the door. “Don’t throw up on my bed.”

“I won’t,” Klaus says, and oozes his way under the blankets. Oh god, it’s still warm from Diego’s body heat. “Have a good day at work, honey.”

Diego slams the door behind him.

“He’s going to give you hell once you’re better,” Ben says.

“That,” Klaus intones, “is a problem for Future Me. Oh man. This is a memory foam mattress. I’m in heaven.”

Ben doesn’t reply. When Klaus turns to look at him, he’s gone.

Fine. He doesn’t need Ben around when he’s trying to rest, anyway. He takes a deep sniff of Diego’s pillows, shampoo and knife oil and sweat, and curls up into a ball. It’s quiet.

Click. “Hey, Diego.”

“What.”

“Just checking the radio was working.”

“It’s working. Go to sleep.”

“Yes, _sir_.”

Silence.

Klaus closes his eyes, and the darkness behind them is empty. No ghosts. Maybe Diego scared them all away.

He falls asleep, and doesn’t dream.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know?? What this is?? Just me trying to get a handle on the characters I guess /shrugs
> 
> plingokat @ twitter


End file.
